


Proud

by kisssanitygoodbye



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Gen, Growing Up, Sibling Rivalry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-27 17:50:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/664735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kisssanitygoodbye/pseuds/kisssanitygoodbye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He’d asked Father once, why he is different from his siblings, why he is normal while they are special, and if the Maker hates him because he hasn’t given Carver a gift." - Written for Carver Week on tumblr</p>
            </blockquote>





	Proud

**I.**    
  
It’s been the coldest winter Carver has ever experienced in his eight years on this world.

No matter how many times Mother sends Fabian outside to chop wood, it never seems to be enough to keep the house cosy and warm. Carver has offered to help, but his brother just laughed at him and pinched his arm with a mocking  _You actually need muscles to chop wood, little one_.

So Carver spends his days inside, playing Hide and Seek with Bethany and watching Fabian work through the stained window, wishing he were as tall and strong as him.

Sometimes he also wishes he could set fire to things the way his brother can, the way Father can, the way Bethany will be able to once she’s had a little training.

He’d asked Father once, why he is different from his siblings, why he is normal while they are special, and if the Maker hates him because he hasn’t given Carver a gift.

Father had laughed at that, the sound quiet and soft, and said something Carver didn’t really understand, something about how the exact opposite might be true, and that Carver should be happy about the way he was born.

And even though he knows that Father is almost always right, he can’t help but keep wondering.   
  
 **II.**  
  
He is twelve when he holds a sword for the first time. The hilt is cool and smooth in his hands, and it doesn’t matter that he needs to use both of them even though it is meant for one, because it feels good,  _right_.

The fact that Malcolm went out with _him_ today - and him alone - fills him with inexpressible excitement. He is the one who matters today, not his brother, not his sister. He has a purpose now, something that makes him indispensable to his family, and he already knows that he will train until his arms fall off to become the best swordsman he can possibly be.

“Alright, Carver, try to hold the sword like I do.” His father is smiling as he demonstrates the proper hand position, and Carver only needs a few moments to mimic his movements. The sword is already getting lighter in his grip, and he has a feeling that it will soon feel like an extension of his arm, if he only practises enough.

“Like this?” Carver asks, because he needs to hear that he’s doing well, and he can’t hold back a grin when he sees Malcolm nod appreciatively.  

“Yes. Very good.”

Father looks at him like he usually only looks at Fabian, and Carver has never been prouder.

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe the Maker has given him a gift after all.  
  
  
 **III.**  
  
It’s funny, but as he’s breaking his way through the undergrowth, the sword on his back feels just as heavy as his very first one had.

He tries to ignore the sounds coming from behind him, but nothing can drown out the screaming, the pained groans, the final gasps.

It is hours of running until he’s out of earshot, feet pounding on bloodstained soil, each footfall like lead. As he’s trying to find shelter to rest for a few hours, he misses the noise. Because now, all he can hear is wild animals and the voice in his head.  _Please, let them be alright. Please don’t let me get there too late. Please. Please. Please._

As soon as the burning in his legs has stopped, he’s walking again, as fast as the merciless Wilds will allow. It takes him three days, three days full of dread and worry and pain, and he almost sobs in relief when he finally sees Lothering in the distance, in an uproar but not wiped out. Not yet.

The first person he sees is Fabian, who’s yelling at one of the merchants for refusing to sell at least one loaf of bread to him, but as soon as he sees Carver, who’s tired enough to collapse by now, Fabian turns away and runs towards him, and Carver is honestly surprised when two arms wrap themselves around him and squeeze.

“Thank the Maker,” Fabian mumbles next to his ear, and Carver holds him a little tighter, because he’s  _breathing_. “Mother and Bethany have been worried sick.”

And Carver smiles, despite everything, because Fabian isn’t as difficult to see through as he might think.

He doesn’t say anything, but when he pats Fabian’s back and pulls away, there’s only one thought in his head, strong enough to drown out everything else.

 _I love you too, big brother._  
  
 **IV.**  
  
He should have left with Mother, because now, it’s only Fabian and him and the Templar armour on Carver’s bed, and the silence is deafening.

“There’s no point in talking me out of this. I’ve already joined the Order. They gave me permission to stay until you got back so that someone could take care of Mother.” Maybe he’s talking too much, but he can’t take the look on his brother’s face and focusing on speaking helps a little.

Fabian folds his hands in front of his mouth, and Carver thinks he might bury his face in them, but then Fabian stands up so fast that Carver takes a startled step back. “You know, I had a suspicion that everything would go to shit with you in charge of the household, but you have exceeded all of my expectations. Well done.”

And Carver is so fucking _angry_ , because he can feel the urge to defend himself rising, and why is he always the one who needs to do this? Oh right, because his brother is never wrong. Except this time, maybe.

“The Order serves an important purpose,” he says, and he shouldn’t be so proud about the fact that his voice is strong and steady.

“Yeah, like imprisoning and killing people like me.” There’s a familiar glimmer in Fabian’s eyes, and Carver doesn’t like it, because his brother usually only looks that way at people he hates.

“Most mages deserve it.”

“Oh? Then tell me, Carver. Do I deserve it? Did Father deserve it? Bethany?”

Carver averts his eyes, because Fabian looks too much like Malcolm when he’s angry. “Don’t drag them into this.”  _Please, brother._

“Right. Like you didn’t back when you blamed me for everything?!”

And Carver has to admit that it’s true. He doesn’t say it, though, he never would. He  also doesn’t say how he wishes that Bethany was here. She’d understand. She always had. Sometimes, at night, he still thinks about how much better things would be if Fabian had died instead of her, and then he is disgusted with himself, because that’s an awful thing to think, isn’t it?

“At least you’re finally ready to admit how much you hate me. Congratulations! Now everyone will know. You might want to shout it from the rooftops on your way to the Gallows, though, just in case.”

And this  _isn’t_ the reason why Carver is doing this, but… “Brother.”

Fabian doesn’t want to hear it. He stretches out his arms, palms up, and takes a few steps towards him. “Do you have manacles? I really hope you do. Would save you the trip, wouldn’t it?”

“ _Fabian_.”

“What?!”

“This is not…” Why is it so difficult to talk? “I’m not planning to rat you out. I would never do that.”

And the smile on Fabian’s lips is dangerous. “Never?” He takes a few more steps, forcing Carver to walk back until his shoulders hit the wall. “You haven’t had any training yet, have you?”

Oh, Carver doesn’t like this at all. And when Fabian gets so close that his chest is pressing against Carver’s, he can’t help but react. It’s just a light push, nothing that would hurt…

… and suddenly there’s a flame in Fabian’s hand, so close to Carver’s face that he can feel beads of sweat forming on his forehead, and maybe, just maybe, he’s scared of his own brother right now, but that would be ridiculous, right?

“You couldn’t stop me. I could kill you right now if I wanted to,” Fabian whispers, and Maker, his voice sends shivers down Carver’s spine. “So how am I any different from all the other mages?”

“We’re… we’re family,” he manages to squeeze out from strangely constricted lungs, and Fabian pulls away so suddenly that Carver has to regain his footing.

“So I deserve to live while others deserve to die, and you’ll be one of the people who make the decision. Father would be disgusted.”

And Carver wants to punch him. He almost does, too, but then he remembers the flames almost licking at his skin, and there is no chance that he would win this fight.

So he grabs his new armour and crosses the room, feeling Fabian’s eyes at the back of his head even as he opens the door and walks out.

Something just broke, and without Bethany, there’s no one to put things back together.

He and Fabian are more alike than he wants to admit. Both of them have always excelled at destruction, but never at mending.   
  
 **V.**  
  
Everything’s gone wrong.

From the start, being a Templar has been so much more than Carver had ever imagined, but this… they can’t ask him to…

This isn’t what he signed up for. He’d always believed in protecting mages as much as restraining them, but Meredith wants a blood bath.

And his brother’s head on a pike. And he  _can’t_.

When he takes a step forward, it feels like watching himself through someone else’s eyes, and he only realises that he opened his mouth when words start to come out.

“I won’t kill my brother for you,” he says, and the utter shock in Fabian’s eyes stings a little. But there’s something else too, something Carver hasn’t seen in a long, long time.

The fight is a blur, with Carver trying to stay close to Fabian in order to keep other Templars from smiting him, and it feels wrong to fight against his comrades, but what other choice does he have?

His brother is the only family he has left, and Carver is not going to let anyone take that away from him. It’s funny, and really, really sad, that it took this much for him to admit it.

And even afterwards, after the battle is won and Isabela’s ship is taking them… somewhere, he can’t actually say it.

But he doesn’t have to. When he sits down next to Fabian - Anders is tending to his cuts and bruises but does a remarkable job of acting like a ghost - there’s a smile on his brother’s face, and for once, it’s an honest one.

“So what does it feel like to be one of the most hated people in the Free Marches? And probably in Orlais too,” Fabian says, voice hoarse from fighting, and even Carver notices how he only started talking now that there’s someone else here, someone who is not Anders. But that is none of his business, and this time, Carver decides to respect boundaries.

“Not as bad as I thought it would. I swear, though, if you ever ask me to do this again, I…”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. And I wasn’t asking, remember?”

“Right. You forced me.”

“Liar.” And now Fabian is grinning. “You had a choice.”

Carver snorts quietly. “No. I didn’t.” And he thinks that this is probably the closest to  _I love you_  they’re ever going to get.

Fabian looks away. “Father would be proud. Of both of us.”

No, Carver thinks, he was wrong, because  _this_ is.

 


End file.
